


The Last Reason

by meerlicht



Series: Where’d all the time go? [2]
Category: Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: CC-1010 | Fox Needs A Hug, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Mind Control, Minor Character Death, No Beta We Die Like Clones, Suicidal Thoughts, There’s like two lines but I’m tagging it to be safe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-11
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-18 19:12:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29987523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meerlicht/pseuds/meerlicht
Summary: Fox stares at the red bricks beneath his feet and thinks of Lothal.Or: Coruscant is killing Commander Fox slowly. He asks for help.
Relationships: CC-1010 | Fox/Quinlan Vos
Series: Where’d all the time go? [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2204880
Comments: 28
Kudos: 134





	1. Three reasons

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like I should explain that the title isn’t a reference to “13 reasons why” or anything like that.  
> This fic is inspired by a book I’ve read in my english class, “Sansibar or the last reason”. It’s an incredible and quite short novel about a group of people who all want to escape Germany during the second Worldwar, but for very different reasons. It’s one of my favourite books of all time. 
> 
> Having said that, please enjoy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorn would help.

_Going to Lothal would be nice_ , Fox thinks.

He’s drunk too much booze and his head spins, and as he leans back in his chair he clasps his hands together. _It’s a pretty planet. Not too big, too. There’s the main city, sure, If I escaped there I would be sent right back, but I could run off to just about anywhere else. Make myself a home._

You can’t make yourself a home on Coruscant, not when you’re a clone. Coruscant is gigantic and loud and ugly. Fox hates the city with all his heart. 

He looks up from his datapad and out of the window of his office. The sounds never end, and he thinks that he hears sirens in the distance. 

_Lothal doesn’t have so much noise_ , Fox thinks. When he imagines it he likes to think It’s quiet. He’s never been to the planet, but he’s heard that the people are kind, even to clones. 

People on Coruscant are cruel. He’s sure the shiny that got beaten to death by civilians just last Primeday would agree. They beat him to death with their bare fists, that’s how much his siblings disgust them. 

You can’t go anywhere on Coruscant without fearing for your life; except maybe to hide in your local clone bar. 

Hiding isn’t what Fox wants, by the way–he wants to get out. 

He wants to get away, but he has to get _somewhere_. You can’t do it like some of the deserting troopers that travel blindly around the galaxy until they’re found, captured and decommissioned. If you don’t have an end goal, a place to be, you’ll return. If you just set out with your ship until there’s nothing but space everywhere, you return. 

You’re free when you see your planet. 

There’s no reason for Fox to choose Lothal, and It’s not like he’ll ever escape anyways, but at times it’s nice to think about it. It calms him down. 

_To escape to somewhere on Coruscant would be even more stupid than to escape to wild space_ , Fox thinks. It’s a big planet, but the chancellor and his people have eyes _everywhere_ you could think to go. And then, when you desert, you’ll be hunted down in Coruscant's streets by the guard–in his case that would mean running from his own brothers. 

Fox heard that Lothal has endless grasslands and it sounds like a dream, because all that Coruscant has is _noises_ and lights and smoke for miles and miles and miles. There is nothing to escape to, no matter how far you run. Fox knows. Enough people tried to escape on Coruscant, and not a single one has made it. 

There are three reasons why Fox has to get away, and the first one is that on Coruscant he’ll never be anything, nothing at all. _Nothing I do here will matter in the end_ , Fox thinks as he looks after a spaceship taking off to force knows where. 

The bottle feels heavy in his hand.

————————————

_Thorn will help_ , Fox thinks, _Thorn isn’t like that._

Afraid, that is. He’s not afraid of him, doesn’t flinch when Fox raises his voice. The others in the Guard aren’t exactly _afraid_ , but they step away when he comes into view and speak carefully as if he could snap at them any second now. He isn’t an _equal_ , to them he’s above. It’s sad. Fox loves his _vode_ and will go through hell to make sure they’re as safe as they can be and still they’re intimidated by him. He watches his _vode_ clap each other on their backs after a mission, watches them exchange casual touch and he _aches_. The Commander knows they look up to him, too, and he loves his brothers more than anything else, but they’re distant. 

Thorn isn’t like that. 

Thorn doesn’t respect him. 

Thorn puts his legs on Fox’s table, makes snarky remarks when others would stay silent and tests Fox’s patience on a daily basis. It would be annoying if Fox wasn’t so glad for it. He doesn’t tell him. He could never do that. But–He has a feeling Thorn already knows, because he knows him better than anyone else. 

That’s why Fox needs his help. 

His office is silent. It’s the only place in this entire fucking planet where there’s silence, and Fox can’t even be happy for it because the silence is _deafening_ and serves as a constant reminder that he’s alone. 

The last time someone came to visit him here was—

He can’t even remember. No one visits. It’s only him. When his troopers need him they send a comm or knock on the door, but they never come in, as if they’re afraid. 

_They are,_ Fox reminds himself.

The floor of his office is red, for some reason. Red stone bricks. Fox hates them. He sees enough red on his job, and every time he looks at the bricks instead he sees—

_Not the time._

It’s not fair to put the blame on his office, because it’s not the room’s fault that it’s not ever being visited by anyone except the clone Commander. 

But–It _is_ the fault of what the fucking red bricks remind him of that Fox now has to go and ask for help. His face heats up and he clenches his teeth, his back aching as he moves to where his armor is neatly put on the ground. 

As Fox puts it on, piece by piece, he finds himself thinking, _this place is just like I am._ Dead. Silent. Alone. 

Thorn would help. 

A silent chant in the back of his mind. Thorn will help. Thorn will know what to do. 

As soon as he leaves his office his headaches return. The hallways are less sound-proof and he hears everything from outside. 

The speeders might as well be screaming right into his ears. 

(Fox is glad for his helmet because he can’t help but _wince_ every single time he gets close to the main streets. For a moment he always closes his eyes and prays to whatever is out there to just let one of the speeders hit him and let it be over with.)

There’s a small board outside of his office. It’s for the people to give the guard their opinion, as if anything they say is better than what the guards know. The people think they’re better because they don't all share the same face. 

There used to be motivating pictures on there, childrens drawings of the guard or thank-you notes. That was before the people here got it into their head that the war is the fault of the clones. 

Fox doesn’t look at the board. He never did and he’s not going to start now. 

He bows his head and types Thorns number into his comm. _We need to talk,_ he writes. _Where are you?_

He waits. Thorn always replies quickly, just like all of his men. They’re reliable. Even Thorn is like that, despite him being–Thorn. 

He waits. 

And waits. 

Fox stares at his comm and his mind is racing. 

Thirty seconds. One minute. No answer. Two minutes. Still no answer. 

Maybe Thorn is ignoring him, maybe he’s dead. Fifty-fifty chance. 

Fox sighs, takes another step forward and his head immediately chooses to punish him for it. He curses under his breath, leans over and balls his hands into fists while he waits for the pain to lessen. His head throbs. 

And while the pressure on his forehead slowly disappears again, he gets the feeling as If there is someone behind him, sitting in his office. 

Carefully, he turns around. But the room is as empty as always. 

Fox checks the time. He has a meeting with the chancellor in half an hour, his least favourite activity. At least this time he just has to deliver his datapads, get about a dozen new ones and that’s that. Other times–

Fox shakes his head sharply, disparages the thought. _Not the time._

The Chancellor is objectively a bad person. Not like anyone would ever listen to Fox’s opinion on the matter, though. He’s a clone. They get nothing. The Senators are no better than the chancellor and Fox hates them for it, hates that they could get them the bare basics of rights that should come with being a sentient being and they _don’t._ There’s not a single good Senator in this entire kriffing building. Organa or Chuchi come the closest, probably. 

But Fox hates them all, and that’s the second reason he has to get away from here. Fox hates the Republic because it has failed him, and guilt is eating him alive for hating the Republic, because it’s the very reason he’s even alive. He’s their _property_ , and there’s nothing he can do about it. 

Fox’s anger is settled deep inside his bones. To calm himself down, he makes sure that he can’t think, be it from exhaustion or alcohol. 

Patches calls them ‘horrible coping mechanisms’, and the medic doesn’t even know the whole story. Fox is careful about what he tells his _vode_. If he’s not careful they’ll think he’s weak, and somewhere there’ll be a snitch and then it’s only a matter of time until he gets reconditioned. 

Yesterday Thire has told him that there’d be a visitor at the guard soon, that the Chancellor wanted them to work together to stop the continued assassination of Clone troopers that the guard alone was “too weak to handle”, to quote the Chancellor. 

Fox told Thire that this guy they were sending could kiss his ass. What the Chancellor doesn’t mention is that Fox’s men keep arresting people who have clear motives, no alibi and fit the describtion, and the fucking senators keep busting them out of jail again, for whatever reason. It makes no sense. The whole Republic is broken. Might as well throw it away at this point. 

“Commander, maybe we could use the help, it–“, Thire had started. 

“Osik,” Fox had said, interrupting him. “ _Osik._ We don’t need some natborns help. We’re the best at what we do, aren’t we? We would be even better if the kriffing Chancellor and his Senators would let us do what we need to do!”

He had taken another swing of his bottle of spotchka. Now he’s back in his office, twenty-seven new datapads lying on his desk and he downs another shot. 

Fox should be working. He knows that. But he’s not drunk enough for this, not yet, and the pile of datapads taunts him. His fists ache with the need to punch something. 

No sign of Thorn. No sign of anyone. He lifts his arm, and his comm blinks at him. No sign of anyone, not a single message, not a single person who cares. 

He knows what his troopers are saying. They say he’ll die because of this. Alcohol. They say he’ll get caught and they’ll recondition him for drinking while working. 

The truth is that even if they knew they wouldn’t give a shit. And he doesn’t drink because he wants to die. He does want to die, but that’s not why he drinks. He drinks to wash his doubts and worry away because he’s the Commander for fucks sake, he can’t afford to be weak. He drinks because he’s the Commander, drinks to drown out what’s happening and drinks to forget that he’ll die here, that he’ll die on Coruscant, alone and probably drunk. 

He looks out the window of his office, and in the distance, far, far on the ground, he sees a tiny red-white spot checking his comm. 

Fox’s comm blinks. 

Thorn: your office?

You: hey. you’re alive

You: Come up and don’t look suspicious

He watches as the tiny spot drops his arm and then stalks towards the senate-building. 

—————————————

Thorn puts his feet up on the table. Good.

When he came in the door he had walked slowly, as if he was approaching a wounded animal. Fox isn’t wounded. Fox hates it when people look at him as if he is, so he pretends to be fine.

Fox’s not fine. He’s aware, thank you very much. It’s why he’s doing this whole kriffing thing. 

Thorn is back to normal now. 

“So. What’s this about,” he asks. 

Fox admires that he always gets straight to the point. No fancy-talking around the hot brew. 

“Where were you?”

“I wasn’t feeling well,” Thorn lies. Straight at his face. Fox knows he’s lying, and Thorn knows that Fox knows.

The Commander squints his eyes. “Fine, don’t tell me” he spits and leans further into his chair. 

“You’re drunk.” 

Fox isn’t sure if it’s an accusation or just an observation. He lifts his bottle and takes another sip. “Got angry,” he says. 

Thorn nods. It’s also a thing he does really well. He listens to Fox’s nonsense, and when Fox is done he nods and pretends to understand. 

The room is silent. 

The last time they had talked must’ve been weeks ago. Fox doesn’t talk to anyone anymore. It’s too exhausting. 

“If you keep your helmet on any more it’ll grow to your face,” Thorn had said with a wide grin. It was supposed to be a joke. Fox was supposed to laugh. 

Instead, Fox, drunk as fuck, had replied, “I wish. Wouldn’t have to look at myself in the mirror anymore. Force, that’s the dream, isn’t it?”

Thorn’s face had fallen. “Fox?”

“What I mean is–don’t want to look at my face. I hate my face. Not—not yours. Not any of your faces, ‘s just me. I just–wish I was dead. It’d be easier.”

There had been silence then, too. For about two and a half minutes. Fox counted. 

“If you ever need my help, you know where to find me,” Thorn had finally said, his voice uncharacteristically soft, and Fox couldn’t sleep for days wondering if he meant it. 

He _needed_ his help.

“Been a while since I’ve been in here,” Thorn says. He looks around. Fox doesn’t know why. There’s nothing to look at except for the red bricks on the floor. 

Fox’s hands are trembling slightly. He blames the alcohol. 

“Thorn,” he says slowly, placing the bottle on the table. Thorn’s eyes snap up to meet his. Fox has never been able to tell what’s going on behind them. 

“I need your help,” Fox finally breathes out after what feels like an eternity. He didn’t mean to whisper, but it’s all that comes out anyway. 

Something flickers in Thorns' eyes. He nods. “Okay,” he says. “I’ll help, but you need to be a bit more clearer than just that, Sir. Tell me what I can do.”

Fox doesn’t look away, even if his neck itches. “Something–,” he starts, and then chokes on air. Gasps. Recoils. 

“Everything is going exactly as it’s planned. I’m doing my job and I follow my orders,” Fox ratters down.

Thorn stares. Fox closes his mouth shut and buries his head in his hands, lifts his finger and points at himself. _Not my words_ , he wants to say. _That’s not me._ The words don’t come out. 

“What?” Thorn asks. 

Fox chuckles unhappily and claps himself on the head _hard_ in an attempt to stop himself as he looks up again. It doesn’t work. 

“Everything is as It should be, trooper. You’re dismissed,” he says. His tongue works without him doing anything. 

“So you don’t want my help? I don’t get it.”

 _I don’t either_ , Fox wants to say. 

“Everything is as it should be,” he repeats, but shakes his head. _Come on, Thorn. You’re smart._

Thorn frowns. “Is this some kind of Joke?” 

Then, something crawls over his features, and his face twists. He holds up his hands and then tips his fingers onto the wooden desk. Tap-tap-tap. 

Fox stares. Arc-sign language.

 _“Someone listening?”_ Thorn asked. 

Fox wants to laugh. Thorn may have come to the wrong conclusion, but–Fox presumes his office is probably bugged. Hell if he knows. 

Why hadn’t he thought of using sign-language? He’s supposed to be the smartest person in the guard. He had earned his name, for fucks sake. 

Fox brings his fingers down. 

_“Not sure,”_ he says. Thorns face falls more, if that was even possible. 

_“Can’t talk,”_ Fox says. “ _Physically can’t. Don’t know why. Say things I don’t want to. Words of someone else.”_

Thorns other hand curls into a fist. 

_“Since when?”_

_“Unsure. Memory-loss. Can’t live like this.”_

_“Affirmative.”_

Thorn is quiet for a moment, squints his eyes in thought. 

“ _Medbay?”_

“ _No,”_ Fox quickly taps. “ _No medbay. Handle alone.”_

“ _Can’t handle alone. Bad. Brain-damage maybe.”_

“ _Maybe. No medbay.”_

“ _You said memory-loss. Not fine. Medics will help.”_

“ _No medbay,”_ Fox repeats angrily. If he’d know they’d only look at his brain, sure, but knowing the medics they’d scan his whole body for injuries and then flip their shit when they find out that Fox is way too underweight and full of scars he never told them about.

It’s not like he himself knows where they came from. 

No, thank you. He’d rather not deal with that. 

Thorn scowls and then he sighs. 

“Has Thire already told you about the General the Chancellor is assigning to us?” He asks with his actual voice. 

“Yes,” Fox says, gritting his teeth at the memory. He thinks it is a little funny, how he can answer some things with ease and others not. “But he didn’t mention he’d be a General.”

“Well. Has he told you that he’s a Jedi?”

Fox’s breathing pauses. 

“He’s a what?”

“Jedi, yep. Maybe he’ll know how to–help us,” he says, nodding toward Fox, and the Commander assumes he isn’t talking about the black market. 

A _jedi_. 

“This is guard business,” he says. _This is MY business. Not the one of a jedi._

Thorn scoffs. “Well, if the _guard_ can’t seem to do it ourselves, maybe _we_ should accept a jedi’s help.”

Fox frowns. He opens his mouth and closes it just in time to stop himself from blurting out nonsense he doesn’t mean instead. He swallows. 

“ _Jedi can be bad, too_ ,” he signs instead. 

“I’m sure the Jedi will be fine. I heard he’s a friend of Cody’s General.”

Cody, his vod’ika, who he hadn’t talked to in months. “Wow, amazing,” Fox mutters. From what he has heard from Kenobi he assumes the man is absolutely insane. A friend of his couldn’t be much better. 

“Glad that we agree,” Thorn says. Then, his expression softens. “Wanna grab something to eat?”

“Can’t. Got too much work.”

Thorn nods slowly. “And If i took my food in here and just happened to–“

“Thorn, I appreciate your offer, but I can’t.”

The thought of food makes him sick. He’s not hungry. 

But that’s the thing with Thorn. He’s the only one who knows which buttons he can press to get something out of him, but he can’t _stop_. He just keeps pushing and pushing until Fox has to resist the urge to throw him out the window. 

“When’s the last time you ate?”

Fox bares his teeth. “I don’t need you to babysit me. You’re dismissed,” he sneers. 

“I’m not–“

“ _You’re dismissed.”_

Thorn presses his lips together in a thin line. “Fine. Don’t die.”

And with that, he’s out. 

Fox stares at the red bricks beneath his feet and thinks of Lothal. 

  
  


The late afternoon sun reflects on his visor, making a tiny point of bundled light appear on the sidewalk in front of him. When Fox moves his head slightly, the dot moves. 

He’s late. The Jedi General that was sent to the Guard because the Chancellor doesn’t deem them competent enough is late. 

Fox checks his comm again. Ten minutes have passed. No jedi in sight. 

He can stand around like this for hours, it’s not a problem, but really he’d rather not. Not here. 

The wide marketplace is empty at the moment except for the people crossing it to get from point A to point B. This is a public place, which means not only does he stand out horribly with his armor, people also keep looking at him. A woman pulls a little girl closer to her when they pass him. Someone spits at his feet. 

Fox is used to it. He can take it. It’s fine. 

Except that the entire day has been eating the last of his nerves and this isn’t helping. At all.

The fact that the marketplace is wide and easy to overlook is simultaneously a blessing and a curse–he can overlook it easily and would see criminal activity even from where he is standing. 

But. Standing this openly on a wide and open spot like this also makes it easy for people to watch _him_. He is on display.

 _Why does the Jedi want to meet here of all places, anyway,_ Fox thinks. He’d gotten a comm from the chancellor that morning, informing him that he’d meet his new superior there and Fox hadn’t asked for an explanation. 

Not like he could’ve gotten anything out, anyway. He’s broken. 

The Jedi still isn’t here. 

Fox has arrived right on time. He always does. As a member of the Guard (and especially as their Commander) you had to be on time or the Senators would use it as an excuse to file a report against you. So why couldn’t the Jedi have the same timing?

 _I’ll give them five more minutes_ , Fox thinks, even if he knows would stay here until the sun is long gone. He lets his eyes roam across the entire place, lingers on a few kids of maybe–Seven years old, natborn-time, then on a small shop with fruits sitting in front of it, then on a dark-skinned man who is–

Approaching him. 

_That’s him_ , Fox decides. The Chancellor hasn’t told him what they would look like, but this was a Jedi if he had ever seen one. For one there is obviously the lightsaber dangling from his belt, but everything else about him is Jedi, too. 

Fox’s seen Jedi before. Just–not this close. The Guard doesn’t have a Jedi. 

He’s a Kiffar, has long dreadlocks and a smile on his face as he stops a little in front of Fox. 

He’s wearing ropes. There’s not a single piece of armor on his body. That can’t be good. 

“Hey there. I take it you’re the Commander? Sorry to keep you waiting, I got into trouble on the way here,” the Jedi says. His voice is loud, but it’s not in the way spaceships are loud or speeders are loud. 

“It’s all good, Sir,” Fox says. He salutes, and he could’ve sworn that the Jedi winces.

“Please don’t do that, man,” the Jedi General says. “There’s really no need. Anyway, I’m Quinlan Vos.” 

He holds out his hand.

Fox stares. Maybe he got a Jedi that has just as much brain-damage as he does, because you’d have to be extremely dumb to believe there’s ‘no need’ for a clone to salute. It’s drilled into them from the beginning. You salute to everyone except your siblings, because everyone except for them is above you. 

The Jedi's hand hangs in the air between them, and Fox’s brain shuts off; then he returns the gesture, squeezing slightly. 

“Clone Commander CC-1010, at your service, General.”

The Jedi frowns. “I’m not even a General, Commander. Just call me Quinlan.”

Fox considers the request and then decides that he won’t do that. 

“Sir, It’d be unprofessional to call you by your name.”

Vos sighs. “I’d fear you’d say that. Obi-wan took months to get his Commander to even call him _Kenobi_. Just—call me whatever you want, but please don’t use the word General.” 

Fox nods, frowning. He’s not sure if he likes this Jedi. 

Quinlan Vos looks at him another moment. Then, he cocks his head to the side, still not letting go of Fox’s hand. 

“And–your name?”

“Sir?”

General Vos’ smirk falls ever the slightest. “Your name, sweetheart. You know what a name is, right?” he says with a small laugh. 

This is a test. It’s a test, and Fox isn’t sure what to do. He does choose not to acknowledge the horrible petname. 

“Members of the Guard aren’t allowed to use nicknames while on duty,” he says carefully. 

With that, the General’s smile vanishes. “Oh,” he says. “I’m not calling you a number, though. Judging by your answer you do _have_ a name?”

Fox is silent for a moment. “Yes, Sir,” he then says. His skin prickles. 

General Vos makes a vague motion with his hand. “So? If you don’t want me to call you anything but Commander for the moment that’s fine, but–“ he trails off, looking at Fox expectantly. 

Fox swallows. “It’s–My name is Fox, Sir.”

The General’s mouth twitches. “Fox, huh? Fits you. I heard that the names you give yourselves have lots of thought behind them. Let me guess, you’re probably a real clever one, aren’t you, Foxy?”

Fox has no idea what to make of this. “...Sir,” he hesitantly says, and then stops, because really he has nothing he can say. 

Vos laughs. “Relax, I’m just messing with you. Now, let’s get to business, shall we?”

As Fox follows his Jedi he wonders why they couldn’t have just met at the senate building if they were going back there anyways. 

While they walk, they talk. Well. Vos does. 

Fox doesn’t talk. He listens instead, takes in all the information. 

General Vos is a Jedi Shadow and Aayla Secura, Bly’s Jedi, was his Padawan. He’s very close to her and when he talks about how much she loves her clone battalion Fox can’t help but feel the hint of a smile appear on his face. He’s glad for the bucket.

At least his little brother is safe. 

Vos goes on to talk about how he almost left the Jedi Order a few times and how the Council wasn’t exactly the most fond of him (which, interesting). The Council had given him this job and now he’s here. 

When they’re at the building, Fox’s comm blinks up. He raises his arm. 

EMERGENCY MISSION: REPORT TO CHANCELLOR IMMEDIATELY. 

Fox freezes. _No, please,_ he thinks for a second, even if he can’t explain _why_. He’s cold all of the sudden. 

“I have been summoned by the chancellor, Sir,” he tells General Vos. “My apologies, but this is urgent.”

“Don’t let me hold you up, I’ll find my room,” Vos says. Fox nods and then starts stalking through the halls. His vision is unclear, but he’d know the way to the chancellor's office in his dreams, his feet almost moving on their own. When he presses down the handle of the door and pushes it open, he’s gone. 

Fox wakes up in the middle of the night. 

He blinks, and his headaches are killing him but he forces his eyes to stay open, looks down on himself. 

His armor’s clean. He sighs in relief. Last time this happened–

 _Not right now_. 

Fox makes his way inside slowly, takes careful steps, but it seems as if nothing is broken or hurt this time. He can move just fine. His left leg is a little sore, that’s it. 

This is fine. This, he can live with. 

Fox enters his room, closes it shut behind him and peels the armor off of his body. When he’s only in his black he puts his blasters on the table and checks—

They’re set to kill. Fox curses, turns around and throws a punch into his mattress, and then another one when that doesn’t do it for him. 

His blasters are always set to stun. Which means he had shot at someone with the intent to kill tonight. 

There are three reasons why Fox has to get away from Coruscant. One, because here, he'll never be anything, two, because Coruscant hates him and he hates it right back, and lastly because it’s turning him into a murderer, and Fox is many things, but a murderer isn’t one of them. 

He has to get out of here, but at the same time the Guard needs him. They need someone to at least _try_ and stand up for them, and if not him, then who? Thire? Stone? Thorn? He doesn’t wish this on anyone, could never do that to them. 

_I’ll never get out of here_ , he thinks, and sinks down to the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fox, getting a comm from the chancellor: (chuckles) I’m in danger


	2. Wooden planks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quinlan Vos and Fox go undercover.

General Vos gets his own room in the building, but for some reason they decided they couldn’t spare another office. So when Fox comes in that morning, coffee in one hand and the other placed on his forehead (those damn _headaches_ ) he finds that the Jedi is already sitting in his chair, perusing a datapad. Fox almost trips. A bit of his coffee spills on the red bricks. 

What a waste. 

Vos turns. “Foxy!” he says with a grin. “Good to see you. What brings you here so early?”

Fox would like to tear the Chancellors head off. That’s nothing new, but the sheer audacity of him never fails to surprise Fox. _How_ and _where_ is he supposed to do his work when there’s a Jedi in the room with him, taking over his entire space?

“...Work,” he finally says. Vos raises an eyebrow. “I agree that It’d be a good idea to work together a lot on the murder thing and I do need to discuss what we already know with you, but right now I’m just collecting people we could talk to. There’s not a lot you can do to help, so—.”

Fox stares at the red bricks, watches the small puddle of coffee that spilled on it. Brown on red. “Not murders,” he hears himself say. “Property damage, Sir. Can’t murder something that isn’t alive.”

He doesn’t look up to see Vos’ reaction, keeps his eyes pinned on the bricks. The last murdered clone had been Kicks. He’d known the kid for two weeks, and then they found him lying on bricks just like these, just that they had been white before. Almost all his bones were broken and his skull smashed in.

“Did he suffer,” Fox had asked Patches. The medic had hesitated and then shook his head, not meeting Fox’s eyes. 

“Tell me the truth. Please,” Fox had pleaded. The medic had sighed, still not looking up from the body. “It–we can assume that he was still conscious for most of the attack. They broke minor bones instead of ones that would’ve killed him right away; They wanted to make his death long and agonizing.”

Fox had stared at the small body in front of him. Kicks had been a shiny, barely nine years old. Too young. Fox had leaned down, had taken Kicks’ broken helmet and had pressed his own against it softly in a silent apology. _I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you,_ he had thought. _Please forgive me._

“The attackers probably kept breaking bones even after he had already–stopped moving,” Patches had continued, his voice a little hoarse. They had cleaned the scene up and brought the body to be cremated. 

“Commander Fox?” Vos suddenly asks, a hint of– _something_ in his voice, something that Fox can’t define. He snaps out of it. _Fuck._ He’d zoned out. “Sorry, Sir, won’t happen again,” he quickly apologises. 

“That’s not–“, Vos starts and then pauses, sighing loudly. “I said that I’m sorry.”

Sorry?

Fox can’t keep up. He’s sorry?

Vos seems to pick up on Fox’s confusion. “I’m sorry that you don’t have more of a choice, Commander. You deserve better than not to even count as sentient beings, legally speaking, when you cleary are.”

Deserve better? Fox’ mouth hangs open, and he’s once again glad for the helmet covering his expression. 

He doesn’t think any natborn has ever said something like that to him. 

Vos puts his smirk back on instantly, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Well, what else can I do for you, Commander? Need help getting to your office?”

Fox stands straight again. Yes. He came in here to work his way through the pile of datapads, and now the Jedi sits in his chair, proving to be an obstacle on his way to get shit done. 

“This _is_ my office. Sir,” Fox says.

Vos seems startled for a moment, and then he laughs. Really laughs. It’s a bit of a funny laugh, Fox finds, but it’s–nice. It feels real. “The Senate can’t do anything right, can it,” Jedi Vos says, flashes another apologetic grin at Fox and gets off of Fox’s beloved chair with a bow. 

“Here’s your chair, Commander. I’ll just sit here then.”

Vos sits himself down on the chair opposite of his, meant for visitors and leans over his datapad again. 

Fox stares at him. Oh. The Jedi’s staying. That’s just amazing.

He steps around, settles in his office-seat and takes one of the datapads of the pile; He doesn't bother reading what it’s about and flicks right to the last page to give his signature. 

Well. _Theoretically_ it’s the Chancellors signature, but Fox honestly isn’t sure if the man even knew how to write his own name, because the man could one hundred percent do this himself; 

Instead all of the work falls to Fox. It’s not that he’s complaining, because drowning in datapads is still better than being assigned to watch over Senators, but this isn’t his _job_. This isn’t what he was born to do. He was born to die, born to fight, born to carry a blaster in his arms and instead he sits in his office the whole day, writing reports and faking signature after signature. 

There isn’t shit he can do about it, though. He’s republic property. He does what he’s told. 

The silence lasts for twenty minutes, and Fox knows Vos will start talking before he even starts, because the Jedi puts his datapad aside and looks around the room. 

Fox thinks back of when Thorn had done the same. 

“Also, Commander, I _did_ mean to ask you what you can tell me about the–deaths of the troopers,” Vos suddenly says. 

Fox looks up from his work. Clears his throat. “Well, we assume that it’s a _group_ of people who are at fault. All the troopers are killed in different ways, but it’s always clear that more than one person was involved in the assault. The targeted clones were always alone or at the most in groups of two or three. Other than that they share no similarities.” 

Vos nods in thought. “Hm. Anything else?”

Fox shifts in his seat, stiffens his jaw. “We have–suspects, but we have been forced to let them go. Not enough evidence.”

“What evidence was there?”

“The fingerprints of our main suspect were found on the body, he had an unreliable alibi who we assumed to be his accomplice and he had a motive.”

Silence stretches between them, and then Vos leans forward. “Did you say there wasn’t enough evidence even though there were _fingerprints?”_

“Yes, Sir. The suspect was deemed innocent.”

General Vos frowns, types something on his datapad. “Well at least that makes the job a bit easier. We’ll just have to figure out a way to arrest this guy. What’s his name?”

“Dax Chandra, Sir,” Fox says. He remembers the names of everyone who hurts his _vode,_ keeps them in a box in the back of his mind. The box is depressingly full. 

A smile appears on Vos’s lips again. “Looks like we’ll be on a stealth mission, then.”

About two hours later Fox is in his room, checks his blasters (sets them to stun, and then double-checks if they’re really set to stun) and whips his head around when his door opens.

“I brought lunch,” Thorn says. He lifts his hands, a small ration bar in each of them. 

Thorn takes off his helmet as he enters the room, places it on the ground next to Fox’s bed. 

The Commander relaxes. Still, he shakes his head. “I can’t eat, I’ll be undercover with General Vos in ten minutes,” he says, holstering the blasters. Vos may have told him not to call him General, but essentially that’s what he is. Of course Fox won’t say that to his face. He’s not dumb. 

“It’s just a ration bar. If you don’t eat now you’ll regret it later when your body collapses while you’re chasing after the guy who killed our vode.”

Fox winces. Thorn is harsh, but Thorn is right. 

His brother throws the ration-bar at him and Fox catches it, almost on instinct. For a moment he just stares at the packaging, and then he carefully pulls off his helmet. 

The cold air hitting his face is uncomfortable. 

He only lets Thorn see him without his helmet; Other troopers have seen his face, too, but he would never take it off voluntarily in front of them. He remembers every single one’s reaction to seeing him without it for the first time. Patches had clearly felt sorry for him, Stone had looked terrified and Jaxter, a brand new shiny, had–

Well. Doesn’t matter anymore. The kid’s dead. 

Stabbed in a dark alley, left to bleed out; He’d still been alive when Fox found him. 

Fox peels the bar open and bites a big piece off. Chews on it, then swallows. It tastes like nothing. That’s better than if something tastes bad, at least. 

Most things taste bad, but then ‘most things’ only include the rations the Guard gets. ‘Part of why Fox doesn’t eat. 

Thorn watches him, and then turns toward his own lunch. They sit in silence. Truly, that’s a rare occasion with Thorn–with Fox, less. He doesn’t speak unless spoken to. 

Thorn finishes first and his eyes flicker up to Fox, and Fox isn’t too dumb too notice how they linger on different parts of his face. 

“Stop that,” he says. “It doesn’t hurt anymore. It’s fine.” 

Thorn doesn’t look away, just meets Fox’s eyes, and then he puts a hand on Fox’s shoulder.

He sighs. “About our talk yesterday. I want to help you,” he says quietly. “But I’m no mind-healer. I think you should talk to the Jedi about this. It has to be something in your head, and Jedi are good at mind-stuff.”

Fox stills. “Thorn, I don’t know him,” he bites out. 

“Then get to know him. You can’t go on like this, Fox. I worry. The rest of the guard worries, too.”

Fox laughs half-heartedly. 

“You sure they weren’t talking about someone else?”

“For fucks sake, Fox, you’re actually blind,” Thorn says. “Just–think about it, will you?”

“Sure,” Fox says, hoping to make it sound like he’s saying _I won’t think about it, fuck you._ In reality he _is_ thinking about it, because there’s a truth to Thorn’s words. Not that he’ll admit that. 

Going to _regular_ mind-healers isn’t an option. The _vode_ get no mental treatment because the longnecks claim that they’re designed to not feel stress and to not get any mental illnesses. They must’ve fucked up somewhere in the production of him and his brothers. 

Fox stores Thorn’s advice away for now. 

Dax Chandra is untouchable because he’s rich. That means that he only bothers interacting with other rich people, and Fox is smart enough to assume _that’s_ part of the reason why Fox is now standing in his office with civilian clones in his hands. 

When Fox had come back to it he didn’t know what to expect, but it definitely wasn’t for the Jedi to hand him _actual clothes_ and to tell him to change into them in the fresher. Apparently he only had needed more time to prepare the mission because he wanted to get fitting clothes. 

Quinlan Vos had already been wearing his “disguise” then, a white robe with golden features. 

“What exactly is the plan, Sir,” Fox had asked. 

Vos had hummed. “The guy you mentioned–he’s having a fancy party. He’s invited everyone, but in his case ‘everyone’ means ‘every rich person’. We’re going to mingle with the crowd and try to get an admission out of him. Also, just so you know, there’s a voice-recorder in the collar of your rope. ‘Records everything we say.”

Fox just knew this mission would go into his collection of worst missions of all time. 

“Sir, I don’t think it’s a good idea to–“ he had started, but Vos wouldn’t let him talk, just shoved him out of the room with the order to change into the clothes he got. 

Now, Fox stares into the mirror. The person who stares back doesn’t even look like him. 

He looks like the sort of guy to spit at Fox’s feet. If Fox were a natborn or Vos one of his vode he would complain to him about the ridiculous outfit, a white robe just like Jedi Vos’, but decorated with red _flowers_. But alas; Vos is a Jedi and Fox can’t afford to upset him. 

The flowers make him think of Lothal, and for a moment Fox allows his thoughts to drift off. He thinks of endless fields of flowers and soft grass, thinks of blue skies and sun prickling on his skin. 

Fox twists his fingers, cocks his head to the side and runs a hand over the robe. 

The cloth feels strange against his skin–it’s as soft as Fox imagines grass to be.

But Fox isn’t made for soft things. He’s made for war and plasteroid, sharp edges and everything that makes Coruscant the city that it is; he’s _made_ for Coruscant. And yet, he’s nothing. 

Reason number one, Fox thinks. _Reason number one on why I need to get away_. 

At least his armor gives him the Illusion of safety, a safety he very well knows doesn’t exist. The robe is too light.

Fox hands reach up to his helmet and his fingers linger on it for a second, but then he slowly removes it, grips it’s sides tightly as he puts it neatly next to the rest of his armor. He doesn’t look into the mirror again. Not without the helmet. 

Vos will probably send him right back to put the armor on again, he thinks. Vos will choose another _vod_ to go with him. Someone whose face isn’t–like this. 

He collects all of his armor in his arms and steps out of the fresher, looks to both sides before he goes back to his office, takes big steps and prays that no vod will see him. 

Whatever it is that’s out there doesn’t listen to his prayer. 

Hound has always had a talent for appearing when you least wanted to see him, so of course that’d be now. He appears out of nowhere, two massiffs at his side, and stands straight when he catches sight of Fox, saluting. 

Hound has seen his face before. Though, since then he’s gotten a few more scars that would last forever. 

At least he’s spared of having to see Hound’s facial reaction. He’s wearing his helmet. Hound had once mentioned that if he could he would never wear one because he’s so proud of his hair. Hound spent at least a month searching for hair dye in dumpsters, and _somehow_ he’s trained the damn beasts to find the small packages, too. Whenever Fox sees Hound helmetless his hair’s a different color. He doesn’t know how healthy that is for. 

Fox recognizes the right massiff as Grizzer, Hound’s favourite, but he’s never seen the other before. Maybe it’s new. 

They must be coming back from a day of hunting down criminals or at the very least hunting down _something_ because all of them are panting, including Hound, who stares at Fox, still. 

Between taking breaths, Hound cocks his head to the side. 

“Commander?”

Fox grits his teeth. 

Hound is the head of the animal handling unit, which in theory puts him at a lower rank than any of the Commanders—practically that isn't the case. The entire guard looks up to him and it’s the dream of every shiny in the guard to become part of his unit instead. 

Fox knows why. They don’t have to deal with the senate. They don’t have to face the daily humiliation that comes with being treated as if you’re _nothing_. 

Another part of the respect the rest of the guard has for him might come from the fact that he treats his massiffs as if they’re completely harmless, isn’t even _careful_ in the slighest. Hound keeps assuring his brothers they would never hurt a vod, but Fox had also seen Grizzer almost bite the leg of a criminal he was hunting off, and that was at least a bit intimidating. Some younger vode think Hound went insane. Fox wouldn’t exactly deny that. 

“Morning, Sergeant,” Fox says, holding eye contact through Hound’s helmet. 

“Morning, Commander,” Hound replies, and the massiff on his left whines.

Fox frowns. 

Something’s off about his voice. It’s meant to sound provocative, meant to annoy him just the slightest, but–he’s trying too hard. He’s trying to distract him, Fox thinks. 

Hound moves his hand so that he’s scratching the massiffs head. Then he continues walking past Fox, and Fox sees what he’s trying to hide. 

He’s limping ever so slightly. 

Fox’s head throbs. Not only is Hound injured, but he’s trying to pretend that he’s fine; He’s walking slow, tense, and when he shifts onto his right leg Fox _swears_ he hears a whimper that doesn’t come from the beasts.

There’s a bit of dried blood on his armor. 

“That’s a very nice outfit, Sir,” Hound says in passing, trying to sound smug. It doesn’t work. 

Fox grabs his arm. “Medbay, now,” he says. 

He’s _not_ doing this. 

Hound is clearly heading somewhere else, Fox knows him, and if he just ignores his injury it could get infected, which would result in him not being able to work, and _that_ would result in him getting decommissioned for being useless for a too large amount of time. A waste of resources. 

Fox isn’t letting that happen, not if he has anything to say about it. 

Hound flinches–in that aspect he’s still like the rest of the guard–and then turns his head away. “I’ll go later, Grizzer and Terror–“

“–will be fine,” Fox continues for him. “They’re massiffs, Hound. They can take a lot and they aren’t even injured. You are.”

Grizzer looks up at Fox with big eyes. 

“Sir, with all due respect, they’re exhausted and they did a really good job today, therefore they deserve–“

“Hound,” Fox says warningly. Hound audibly sucks in a breath before his shoulders slumb. “Fine. I’ll go to medbay first,” he says. Fox nods and lets go of his arm, and after another long moment Hound turns around and limps down the corridor. 

Grizzer presses his head against Fox’s thigh and then trots after his owner. 

Well. Not his owner. Hound doesn’t really _own_ the massiffs; They and Hound are property of the republic, just like all of his _vode_. 

Fox looks down the hall. Then he turns back to the door of his office. 

He knocks three times, and when he enters it Vos is sitting on the table. The Jedi’s hair is put into a somehow fancy-looking ponytail and he spins around when Fix comes in. 

Fox looks to his feet. The red bricks mock him. 

“Looking good, Command–Oh force,” Vos says, voice breaking halfway through, and then he’s quiet. 

When Fox looks back up, Vos meets his eyes, an unreadable expression on his face. Fox knows why. He feels shame puddle up inside his stomach, and he looks to the ground again, fingers fidgeting behind his back. 

“Sir, I’ve tried to tell you that my face isn’t exactly the most–presentable. I apologise that I didn’t try hard enough to tell you. I could assign Commander Thorn to support you for this mission,” he adds.

Vos frowns. Closes his eyes. 

_He won’t even look at me_ , Fox thinks. Not that he blames him. 

“No, Commander, I’m definitely still taking you along. This won’t be a problem, it might even help with you not getting recognized as a clone. Along with your hair you certainly don’t look like most of your brothers,” Vos says. 

Fox nods uncertainly. His hair isn’t–special, exactly. He’s not trying for it to be special. In fact, Fox isn’t trying at all. The hair is unruly and grown out because he doesn’t bother keeping it in place–what use would it be? The helmet hides his face ninety percent of the time anyway. Patches says the grey comes from the stress. Fox believes it. 

“If you think so, Sir.”

“You’ll just need a good cover up story to–explain those bruises. Did–,” he pauses, and his eyes flicker to the window and then back to Fox. “Did you get these while on a mission?”

 _No,_ Fox wants to say. _The bruise on my eye I got on Primeday from the Senator who wanted to have Rys decommissioned. The one scar from when I guarded Senator Ledwellow and he threw a fucking chandelier at me because I dared to try to tell him what to do, and the other from when the daughter of a Senator and her friends held me down and—_

_Stop that. Not the time._

“Yes,” Fox says after a moment. 

The Kiffar still doesn’t look happy, but he gives him a small smile. “If it makes it any better, they make you look like a really tough guy,” he says. 

It doesn’t make it better. 

Fox appreciates the effort, though. Vos doesn’t know. It’s alright. 

The driver of their shuttle is a small man with a mustache. He doesn’t look at them twice, just silently collects the credits and then starts the engine. Fox decides he probably won’t be of any danger to them. 

It’s a thing he does with everyone he meets; If you don’t know how to judge people based on small interactions you won’t survive long in the guard, and there are _reasons_ as to why Fox is the head Commander. 

That, and the fact that he was the best of the best. He had worked his ass off to appear appealing to the longnecks and to get the best results in the hopes of getting a high position in the GAR later on, in hopes of being able to protect his brothers. 

Obviously, that plan had failed. Fox works with what he has and protects those he can, but–it rarely works. 

They sit in the back of the shuttle, and Fox watches the city. It’s just as loud and ugly as it was last time. He closes his eyes for a moment and tries to block out the noises, but it’s _too much_ coming from too many different sources _._ His headaches make their heroic return, and when Fox thinks that nothing is worse than being so close to the main streets Vos _slings an arm around Fox’s shoulders._ The Kiffar leans back into his seat, perfectly relaxed. Fox stiffens. His eyes dart over to the Jedi. 

Vos leans closer, and Fox resists the urge to punch him. “This okay? ‘Trying to appear natural,” he says. His face is way to close and Fox’s fingers twitch; he can feel the pressure of the Jedi’s arm on his shoulders, weighing him down. 

_It’s not okay,_ Fox thinks, but he can’t say that. Vos may phrase it like a question, but it’s not, not when it’s his superior asking it. Fox doesn’t get a choice, Fox doesn’t get _anything_ , and because he’s a good soldier he quietly answers, “Of course, Sir.” 

Vos looks at him and he opens his mouth only to close it again without a word coming out, and then the arm around his shoulders disappears. Fox sits even more still. Fuck. He’s messed up somehow, hasn't he? Maybe Jedi can read thoughts, there was something about that, wasn't there? Fuck. Kriffing shit, fuck, fuck—

“Hey, relax,” Vos says and his hand reaches out, stops mid-air and then falls back down into the Jedi’s lap instead. A weird sort-of smile tugs at his lips. “I can pick up emotions, not thoughts, in case you’re wondering. I felt you were uncomfortable.”

That doesn’t make it better. Vos knows that he just lied straight to his face. He just lied straight to a Jedi’s face, oh kriffing fuck. 

“I’m sorry, Sir, I assumed–“

“Please don’t apologise, you didn’t do nothing wrong,” Vos says, holding up his hands. “Also. For the sake of the mission. It might be a good idea if you could start calling me Quinlan instead of ‘sir’–or, you use my codename, Burin.”

Fox scowls, and for some reason that makes Vos laugh. “Yeah, I know, you don’t like that, but–take it as a necessity for the mission instead of a breach of protocol, will you?”

Fox nods, and as he tries to appear a bit more casual in how he’s sitting his eyes flicker to the side, and he has to admit that Vos _does_ have really nice arms. He doesn’t want them anywhere near him but that much he can say. 

Vos cares about if he’s uncomfortable or not. Fox isn’t sure what to make of that. 

He’s also tempted to ask Vos why he chose that name as his codename, but decides against it because generally speaking asking questions only leads to trouble. It’s better to go with it. 

He keeps his hands close to his waist, thankful for the blaster right under his robe. If he had to go to this weaponless he would’ve gone insane. 

When Fox looks over again Vos looks as relaxed as ever, taps his fingers on the side of the shuttle. Fox focuses on that noise instead of the roaring speeders.

  
  


The two men that stand in front of the door don’t look at either of them twice, either. Fox would file a complaint later on, but then again these people will be fine. They don’t need protection, no matter what the Chancellor thinks. 

Vos flashes a smirk at him as they enter the building and Fox resists the urge to roll his eyes, because that’d be unprofessional. Vos may be encouraging unprofessional behaviour but he was the Commander of the Coruscant Guard, disguise or not, and he wouldn’t let himself get carried away. 

He folds his hands behind his back and turns to Vos. “What now,” he asks. 

“Now we try to find this guy. You remember what he looks like? Because I forgot to bring the holo.”

“I do.”

“Good, keep your eyes open then, Foxy. Other than that just try to act like a rich person.”

Vos starts walking and Fox follows close behind, eyes sweeping over the fancy interior and the people chattering quietly. The only ‘parties” he’s ever been to were small get-togethers at 79’ with his brothers while they were on leave. Those were far less luxurious, obviously. 

The last time he went was bad. He got blackout drunk. He doesn’t remember anything about it, but Wolffe had been there and he had stopped visiting Fox entirely after that night. Fox doesn’t blame him. He’d do the same if he was in his shoes. Fox doesn’t even want to know what he’s said or done that made Wolffe hate him even more. 

Fox stopped showing up too after some time, maybe a year into the war. If he was going to drink it would be nicer to do that in the safety of his office, not where all his brothers would see. 

Suddenly, a woman bumps into his shoulder and Fox _flinches_. Fuck. He hadn’t been paying attention. 

“Oh Goodness,” she says, looks up. He quickly snaps his eyes to her and stands straight. “My apologies, S—“

Before he can end the sentence Vos puts a hand on his shoulder, and Fox winces. Right. He shouldn’t say ‘sir’ when pretending to be a noble guy.

“Ah, Miss Irunel! How good to see you!” Vos says cheerfully. His gloved hand still sits on Fox’s shoulder, but it only presses down lightly; It might as well not be there at all. 

The woman blinks, doesn’t seem bothered by Fox at all. “Have we met?”

Vos holds out his hand. “We have, though it was only a short moment. It hasn’t left my mind ever since, but I understand if you've forgotten about our small chat. My name’s Burin Solimar. This—“ he gestures to Fox, “—is–uh–Shabuir Solimar.”

_Shabuir?_

Fox stares at the Jedi in horror. What the fuck? He wonders if he knows the meaning of that word, if he knows it’s mandoa. He probably does. It’s probably meant to insult him. Fox had almost messed up, after all, but _really,_ calling him names was just unprofessional, especially when the Jedi had been almost _kind_ until now. 

Vos nudges his arm ever so slightly, and he blinks. 

“Yes. It’s—an honor to meet you, Miss Irunel,” he says, biting his tongue to stop himself from blurting out the sir. 

“Nice to meet you too, Mister Solimar,” she replies with a friendly smile. Fox is just glad she didn’t go for the first name Vos had assigned to him. “Have you gotten in trouble? Your face looks quite as if you’ve had a rough time.”

“I–did get into trouble, ma’am. The usual. It’s no big thing.”

The woman nods in sympathy. “Mhm, living in Coruscant when you’re a person of importance is rough. Those clones don’t do a good job at protecting us, though think they wouldn’t have anything better to do. Well, I best be going on my way now, I quite badly need to get to the bathroom,” the woman continues, chuckling slightly. 

Vos laughs, too. “Don’t let us hold you up, my lady,” he says. She pushes herself past them. 

The Jedi looks after her, huffs and then turns to Fox, who is still staring at him. “I’ve never talked to this woman before. I saw her on the holonet,” he explains. “But rich people forget about everyone they deem unimportant all the time.”

Fox looks after the woman, and then he carefully turns to face Vos. He’ll risk it. Fox can take a lot, but giving him the codename _shabuir_ was dumb for several reasons, including but not limited to that maybe _someone_ here speaks Mandoa and would figure out that no one is named that way. “Sir,” Fox starts, and cringes before continuing. “Why did you use the name Shabuir to introduce me?”

Quinlan Vos smiles widely at that, leans back and looks at the ceiling. “My best friend used to spend a lot of time on Mandalore and he teached me a few words back in our youth. My lovely Aayla told me that the _vode_ are Mandalorian, so–I thought It’d be a nice codename for you.”

Fox really doesn’t have time to unpack all of that. “But–why Shabuir?” he asks, scowling. 

Vos raises an eyebrow. “I thought the Mandoa word for ‘Commander’ would be fitting,” he says casually. 

_Oh_. 

“S–“, Fox says, breaks off, and starts again. “Burin,” he says, and Vos grins at him. “Shabuir doesn’t mean Commander.”

Vos blinks. The grin is frozen on his face. “It doesn’t?”

“No. Not at all.”

“Well, what’s it mean, then?”

Fox takes a deep breath and hopes the Jedi won’t kill the messenger. “It’s–an insult. Something like ‘Fucker’.”

Vos stares at him for a full minute, realisation dawning on him. His grin crumbles and his eyes fill with horror. “Oh Force,” he whispers. “That may explain why Obi-wan’s Commander hates me so much.”

Fox can’t help himself. He lets out a small amused noise, though his expression stays neutral. Vos had called _Kote_ a shabuir? What Fox would give to have been there. Cody was always angry so quickly, It would’ve been the highlight of Fox’s month. 

For a moment Fox almost forgets that Cody hates him, now. 

Vos looks at him in betrayal, shakes his head in disbelief. “That fucker,” he says, stunned. “I didn't think Kenobi had it in him to do something like this. _Fuck_.”

Somehow, the word ‘fuck’ coming out of a Jedi’s mouth is the funniest thing Fox has ever seen. He doesn’t laugh, doesn’t grin either, just lifts an eyebrow. Carefully mimicking Vos’ look without making it too obvious that he’s making fun of him. 

After another second Vos chuckles. “I can feel you laughing at me,” he says. Fox thinks of an reply when he looks past Vos’ head—And freezes. 

Dax Chandra, a human with short, blonde hair and a bit of stubble on his chin throws his head back as he laughs at something the people around him must’ve said, and Fox–

Fox thinks he’s going to be sick. He balls one of his hands into a fist to calm himself down and wishes he had alcohol to help him through this. 

“Behind you, left, close to the wall,” he says, not taking his eyes off the man. Vos turns.

“Oh, okay, good. Here we go,” Vos mutters. “It’s probably best if I go to talk to him and you stay nearby–if he’s our guy he’ll probably recognize your face. Just–chill, maybe look for suspicious activity. That sound good?”

“Sounds good.”

Vos grins. “Good. See you later, Foxy.”

The Jedi walks towards the group of people, stands next to them and starts participating in the conversation as if he had been there all along. 

Fox surveys the room. Still no different from the concourse they had been in; Bigger, maybe, but useless. There’s nothing in here, Fox notes, nothing except a few tables with fruit stacked onto fancy plates. It’s a blant waste of space. 

The sun shines through the stained glass of the window and paints the floor pink. 

No stone bricks, Fox finds. The floor is made out of wooden planks. 

He inspects the tables that have been set up and the small–snacks, probably, that have been presented in the most ridiculous way possible, with tiny umbrellas sticking out of the bits of sausage and all the other fancy, expensive food that Fox couldn’t even begin to try and remember the name of. He doesn’t think he’s eaten anything other than ration bars in a month. 

“Looks delicious, doesn’t it,” someone says next to him, and Fox nods. He’s noticed them approaching but had hoped they would just take a mouthful and leave. 

Fox doesn’t get lucky. He never does. 

He looks at the man out of the corner of his eye; A hulking guy that seemed to be at least humanoid. It’s no surprise to Fox that there are almost no other species around; Humans and humanoids think they’re so much better than them.

“I’d recommend trying those,” the man continues and shifts closer as he points at the thing. “I’ve had loads of them. They’re amazing.”

Fox eyes him warily before he hums as an answer, trying to think of a way to subtly escape the conversation. 

“My name’s Tines. Unduli. Just Tines is fine,” the guy continues and smiles at Fox. His smile is–predatory. It’s somehow the complete opposite of Vos’ smile. 

Fox’s mouth feels dry. 

“Pleasure to meet you, Tines,” he says and carefully tries to lower his voice and to keep the usual accent out of it, in case this guy connects it with clones. 

Tines doesn’t seem to notice any similarities, just looks very satisfied with himself. “And what’s _your_ name, hot stuff?”

Fox wants the ground to open up and swallow him whole. If a terrorist ever wanted a moment to blow things up while he was around, this would be the time. He wants nothing more than for his fist to meet this guy’s face. 

But Fox is an expert on not having any emotions show on his face if he doesn’t want them to. He looks straight ahead, at the wall in front of him, and a small part of him screams in anger. 

_Reason number two,_ he thinks. _I hate them all._

“...Fox,” he finally says, because Fox could very well just be a normal name and he can’t think of anything else. The name feels heavy on his tongue as Tines shifts closer.

“Fox,” he repeats. “Pretty name. Suits you.”

He cocks his head to the side. “Gotta say, you look like you’ve been through some stuff. What’s happened there?”

Fox contemplates just getting up and leaving, but that’d probably upset Tines, and that’d get him even more unwanted attention. 

Well. Fox’s thoughts race, and in the matter of seconds he comes to a decision. His heart beats in his throat. 

“I was wrongfully attacked by those clones,” he says carefully, testing the territory. “They thought I was part of a spice market organisation and didn’t bother listening to me.”

The lies come easily. Fox knows how to lie just like he knows how to keep a straight face even with a knife in your side. 

Tines’ face twists. (Fox had been right.) “That scum,” he growls. “Damn meatdroids don’t respect human lives. Fuck them.”

“Yeah,” Fox says, voice hoarse. And then, more quietly, he adds, “If I ever got the chance to kill the one that did this without getting in trouble, I would.”

“Pretty sure they aren’t actually alive, or at least not in the way we are,” Tines says. He looks at Fox intently, and then his eyes dart around and he scoots even closer. 

“Can you keep a secret,” he asks. Fox, fighting the urge to puke, nods. 

“I have a few buddies of mine who have teached a good amount of clones their lesson. If you want I can ask them to… do that again. For you. There’s no promise they’ll get the one who did this to you but then again they’re basically all the same, so...”

It makes Fox want to put a hole in Tines’ chest, how _easy_ it is to get information out of him. Fox knows why. As long as he doesn’t mention names even if Fox would sell him out; the guard wouldn’t be able to arrest him. With the admission that he knew of it on record he could at least do _something_ , but–

It wouldn't be enough. If Fox wants to get justice for his brothers that won’t be enough. 

Fox swallows and tries to smirk. “I know the clone that did this is on patrol in level twenty-three on Zhelldays in the evening.”

Tines blinks. “You were spying on the thing, huh,” he says, somehow amused. “I don’t blame you. I’ll tell my friends, and as a kind of exchange–how about we get a drink together sometime? I’ll give you my com?”

Fox nods, holds out the com on his arm and lets Tines put his number in, and the place where his fingers meet Fox’s skin tingles uncomfortably. “I’ll–look forward to it,” Fox says, and out of the corner of his eye he sees Vos move away from the crowd. “I’ve got to go now, though, I have an–appointment.” Vos turns, seems to be looking for him. 

“Sure, just don’t forget to call me,” Tines says, laughs, and Fox moves past him as fast as he can, before that monster can think of anything else he wants to say. Fox can’t wait to hit the freshers after this to try and watch his touch off of him. 

“There you are,” Vos says when Fox approaches him. “Let’s go. I got what we need. It’s so insanely easy to get an admission from these guys,” he says, shaking his head. Fox decides against telling him that they’re aware, that this won’t do anything. 

But–Vos is a Jedi. Maybe If he says something, he’ll be listened to. 

Maybe. 

Still; Better to have a backup plan. 

“I’m still a little baffled that no one recognized you. You would think they knew what a clone looks like.”

 _They do,_ Fox thinks, _And at the same time they don’t._ Natborns, especially Senators and the rich, don’t look at their faces. They look at their helmets or past them. 

Kicks had been found still wearing his helmet. They didn’t take it off. They don’t want to see the person behind it, because they want to believe that there isn’t one. 

“And you? Saw anything?” Vos continues. 

Fox walks after him, follows through the concourse. Wooden floor. Clean, fancy wooden tiles. You don’t get that in the Senate building. 

They step out the front door, and the sun just meets his eyes, and Fox squeezes them together, lifts a hand as shade. His eyes dart to the ground again. 

White bricks. 

“No,” Fox says. “I saw nothing.”

 _Reason number three_ , he thinks silently. He doesn’t finish the thought. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heya!  
> I wanted to get this chapter out quickly so I have no excuse to not work on the next chapter of ‘someone to watch me die’. I’ve got barely 600 words at this point. Doesn’t quite reach my goal of 6k.  
> In the book this is inspired by there are six main characters; for this work I’ve mashed their main storylines into one horrible Frankensteins monster and slapped Fox’s Character onto it. Each Chapter will “respresent” one of the main characters.  
> (There’ll probably be a tad more chapters than that, but I don’t really know yet. I’ve got most things planned out but no idea how long each arc will be :)  
> This chapter is a lot longer than the first one for plot reasons. Uhh. This was horrible to write and I didn’t enjoy it. But! The next chapter will be lots of fun :) *rubs my evil little hands together* Yes...fun...  
> Also! This work doesn’t have any upload schedule at all. I update when the next chapter is ready, but I don’t think it’ll take longer than two weeks!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!! If you liked this, please consider leaving Kudos or a comment. The Validation helps me write faster >:)
> 
> Visit me on tumblr!! https://mando-meer.tumblr.com/


End file.
